on. If everyone up there was really psychic, why wouldn’t they win the lottery instead of getting paid a few Jacksons at a time?”
“This is a psychic fair. It’s community outreach. Personal readings cost a lot more than a few Jacksons.”
“Not an argument in their favor.”
“And psychic abilities don’t necessarily work that way. How’s your eyesight?”
Damn, but he had expressive eyebrows. “Come again?”
“You’ve got pretty good eyesight, right?”
“Sure.”
“So tell me who’s standing in front of the Eiffel Tower right now.”
He snorted. “I couldn’t say.”
Faith folded her arms, trying to look severe. “I thought you had good eyesight. Were you conning me when you said you had good eyesight?”
“But,” he countered, clearly enjoying himself, “if I got on a plane and flew to Paris, I could describe anyone in front of the Eiffel Tower. Why wouldn’t one of those psychic types get on their imaginary plane and fly wherever they needed to go to get a good look at tomorrow’s lotto numbers?”
Which left Faith with nothing better than, “It doesn’t seem to work that way.” It sounded lame, even to her ears. “And then there’s karma.”
They scowled at each other. Then Roy tried a different angle. “So how good a rep did Krystal Tanner have? As a reader, I mean.”
“She was one of the best.” And she was. You’re so lonely, she’d told Faith during that first reading, and that without even touching her. Because you sense so much, you try not to sense anything at all. You haven’t found your soul mates yet—or they haven’t found you. You’re scared to let people know your secrets. So’s the woman who raised you…your mother…?
“Who else is considered good?”
Faith gave him a few names, most of whom were upstairs, several of whom were published. “Then there are some who don’t do the public fairs.”
“Name one.”
“Celeste Deveaux, I guess—she was a lousy fortune-teller, but she’s supposed to be an excellent medium. She doesn’t like doing readings for people whose grief is still fresh, so she avoids walk-in readings like this. There’s a witch who goes by Hecate who’s the real deal, but she’s out of state right now.”
He actually had his notepad out of his pocket, writing these down. “A witch. Great. Give me more.”
No, she thought, annoyed with his pushiness as well as his cynicism—and still, damn it, noticing his thick wrists. Then she had a truly bad idea. An unmistakably bad idea.
So why did it appeal so strongly?
You’re playing with fire. Don’t even think about it.
“Come on,” wheedled Roy, turning on the charm. He would never be a model, not with the tired eyes, definitely not with that nose. But something about him… “Someone. Anyone.”
By now, the alternative would have been to bite her tongue off. “She’s not well known, but I’ve heard rumors of someone in town who’s supposed to be very good. Very, very good. It’s a Greek name…Cassiopeia? No, that’s not it….”
He sat up. “Cassandra?”
She widened her eyes. He liked innocence? Well here was innocence. “That might be it.”
Roy was gritting his jaw so tightly as he shook his head that she feared he might break some teeth. Wow. He really didn’t like Cassandra, did he?
Better to know that now, she guessed. “Not that I’ve ever seen the woman. Apparently she keeps to herself.”
“Yeah, but you’ve heard something.” Like that, he was leaning over the table again, warm and demanding and coffee-scented. Practically leaning over her. Practically touching. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”
Caught now, she would have been glad for almost any interruption.
She still felt a cold horror wash through her as she recognized something—a footstep, a heartbeat—behind her.
The killer was here.
And he was feeding.
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